by Chris Bunch
Again the pass narrowed, and I saw, perched high above, the ruins of a stone fort Numantia had carved out two centuries earlier, when our country had a king, instead of being governed by the Rule of Ten, and before we’d allowed the Kaiti, with the implicit support of the Maisir, to negotiate us all the way back to the flatlands.
These days Kait was as the Men of the Hills preferred it — anarchie, where every man had an enemy and every tribe a desperate feud. The achim on the throne in Sayana was barely more than a figurehead and, being himself a brigand, someone who used the royal advantage for his clan’s private wars.
The pass widened, and there was a small village, and the legend on my map said They pretend to be allies of any traveler, but turn not your back. Let one of them drink water, taste fruit, before you buy.
I saw only half a dozen old men, a few babes, and no women at all. The last was unsurprising — the Men of the Hills prize their women as possessions to be kept hidden, for fear a bolder or stronger man will steal them. But that there were no men, leaning insolently on spear or sheathed saber, was alarming.
Troop Guide Bikaner told me this most likely meant the men were araiding. “That’ll be th’ happiest explanation, though,” he said.
As we went deeper into the pass, crawling along, I saw, on the highest crag above me, a bit of movement that might have been someone watching. Then came a mirror-flash, as someone signaled our presence to others, deeper in the pass.
A mile or so farther on, we came on another human presence. Bodies, half-rotten, were scattered in a draw that led up from the trail. They were black, dead more than a few days, and decaying.
One of my men dismounted, and ran to the corpses. As he did, kites fluttered up, skrawking at their meal being disturbed. He reported they were hillmen, and all were naked, stripped bare. He’d seen an arrow shaft protruding from one’s ribs, and knew by the markings it came from a hillman’s bow.
“I reckoned,” Troop Guide Bikaner said, “back there if th’ village men were out just raidin', that was the best that could be. This” — and his hands swept across the tiny battleground — “means worse. Feudin’ at least. Just as likely buildin’ themselves up for war.”
“Against whom?” I asked.
“Anybody,” Bikaner said. “Mebbe th’ folks in Sayana that they despise for bein’ weaklings who give up on th’ hills. Mayhap south, into Maisir.
“But most likely north. Into Urey. Been a few years since they struck at us, an’ th’ thought of how rich it’s got since they raided’s got to be makin’ ‘em lick their lips, thinkin’ of th’ sweets t’ be had.”
He was most likely right — I’d heard in the Lancers’ mess it had been almost five years since there’d been a good plague or a better war, which was when promotions fell like leaves in a windstorm. It would make a grand preamble for such a war if the Men of the Hills could parade a high-ranking Numantian head on a lance.
Captain Mellet’s sergeants were shouting, and I saw pickets running down from the latest hill they’d outposted, and other warrants were calling for their squad to be ready to mount the next ridge and we were ready for our next round of leap-the-frog.
It was completely intolerable. The day was growing late; the sun was already in the center of the heavens.
Very well, I thought. I was put in command of this force. Therefore I shall command it. It was increasingly obvious that I was, if not intended, then surely expected, to fail. I would always rather fail doing something than waiting or doing nothing.
I rode to the wagon Captain Mellet was in.
“Captain, I wish you to take charge of this train, including the cavalry’s wagons and spare mounts.”
The man took a minute to think, then nodded acceptance.
“Very well, Legate á Cimabue. But you?”
“The cavalry will ride on, without stopping, until we find the resident-general.”
“But Legate …” and he looked about, saw he could be overheard, and jumped from his seat and hurried to my horse. “Legate, that’s against standing orders. No unit moves without its support, except in battle or on patrol.”
“My orders, sir,” and I put finality into my tones, “were to escort the resident-general through Sulem Pass to his new post in Sayana. Those are the orders — the only orders I propose to follow.”
I didn’t wait for his response, but shouted for Bikaner. Fill canteens from the water barrels on the wagons, each trooper draw one pound of dry rations — beef jerked with mountain berries — and we would ride. Ten minutes later we clattered off, at the trot, down the trail.
I sent two riders ahead, with orders to stay within eyesight of the troop, to wait short of any possible ambuscade until we drew almost to it, and then to ride through at the gallop. I changed these scouts every half hour.
This was a deadly risk, but I thought it had a chance of succeeding. First, because we were moving faster than the hillmen could, even though they had the fleetness of mountain antelope afoot, and also because no one traveled through the Border States in this manner.
I wished we had infantry in support, since sending cavalry through broken terrain without keen eyes afoot to spot a spearman lying in wait is waiting to be destroyed. I had even dreamed of a way to move them faster: either to have them ride behind us, and dismount when we made contact; or even hanging onto our stirrups, which I’d done as a lad when there were five of us and only one horse. Hard on horses, hard on men — but I thought it could work. This later became one of the emperor’s most prized tactics to surprise the enemy. But I had not time to explain it to Captain Mellet nor to train his troops in the method.
We moved until it was too dark to see, then made a cold camp, lighting no fires, and keeping half the men on watch.
I slept not at all, and when I could distinguish my hand in front of my face ordered the men up and on.
Two hours after sunrise, we heard the screams of dying horses, the shouts of men fighting for their lives.
• • •
I found later that Laish Tenedos had kept his party moving from first to last light, hurrying to get through Sulem Pass to offer the least temptation to the Men of the Hills, not believing in the storied safe-conduct pass. This day, they’d set out at dawn, and had reached the plateau where the Sulem River that came from Sayana curved and left the pass.
They’d seen no enemies, been harassed by no hidden bowmen. They thought that a good sign, none of the party having any experience in these mountains, whereas a Lancer would have taken the greatest alarm, knowing some terrible and vast trap was being laid ahead.
I heard the noise, just as the two men on point galloped back and reported fighting — they thought it was the party we sought, because there were elephants down — at the ford.
I was about to shout for the attack, just as the books say foolish cavalrymen do whenever they hear the clang of swords, but caught myself, remembering there might well be flankers ready, and we could hurtle straight into another trap — this one prepared for rescuers.
I told Lance Major Wace to ready the troop for battle and, with Troop Guide Bikaner, rode forward a ways, then dismounted and went on foot until we could see the valley in front. We flattened and considered the scene.
From this moment until the end of the battle, I shall describe the action as clearly as I can, since this, the Meeting Between Damastes á Cimabue and the Young Seer Tenedos, at the Battle of Sulem Pass, is one of the best-known scenes in Numantia’s recent history, familiar in paintings, songs, tales, and murals and presented in a manner either foolishly romantic, absurd, or so filled with Great Portent it should be a religious ceremony. Only our final stand, years later on the blood-soaked field of Cambiaso, is more widely portrayed.
Let us start with the facts of the battle. There were perhaps 600 Men of the Hills on one side, and less than 350 Numantians on the other. This was fairly large for a fight in the Border States, but hardly the horizon-to-horizon clash I’ve seen it painted as.
I saw no anxious gods overhanging the battlefield, nor demons fighting on either side. Nor had there been any magical emissaries imploring me to hurry and save the emperor-to-be.
Finally I saw no grand sorcerous figure standing in the ruins hurling thunderbolts as if he had become a manifestation of Saionji herself.
What I saw was a desolate, desertlike valley, the ground dotted with scrub brush and, every now and then, a scraggling plot of worked ground that might have been called a farm. The Sulem River curled through this valley, and the road crossed it at a ford.
Here was where the ambush had been sprung. Two elephants lay dead just on the other side of the ford, and there were Numantians crouched behind their corpses, using them for shelter. There were four carts, one on the far shore, one overturned in midstream, and two others on the bank closer to me. Two other elephants were kneeling beside those carts, their handlers trying to keep them calm.
There were bodies of horses, oxen, and men scattered around the wreck of the caravan. But there were still Numantians alive, still fighting.
I looked for the enemy, and finally saw some hillmen, well camouflaged in their sandy robes behind rocks on the far shore. Downstream, I saw another party of tribesmen wading the river, about to encircle Tenedos’s men.
“Not bad, sir,” Troop Guide Bikaner said. “Th’ hillmen waited til th’ seer’s party was fordin', at th’ time of most confusion, when ever’body’s worried about the horses breakin’ free, and waterin’ th’ oxen, an’ then they hit ‘em hard. ‘Course, if I were handlin’ the ambush I would’ve hit ‘em short of th’ river, an’ let those that survived th’ first clash go mad smellin’ but never tastin’ water.” He looked on, and tsked. “I’m afeared those aren’t th’ finest hillmen I’ve seen. I see no sign they’ve got anything in th’ way of a reserve, either.”
“Very good, Troop Guide, and I’m sure you have a grand future as a dacoit,” I said briskly. “One column detached, put Lance Major Wace in charge of that, to deal with those people crossing the river. The rest of us will take the main body at the charge. Straight down the road at the trot, at the walk across the river, which doesn’t look more than hock-high, then charge in arrow formation at the horn. Go through them … there,” I went on, pointing, “sweep back and mop them up. Pay no mind to the resident-general’s party — I don’t want them to slow us.”
Troop Guide Bikaner made no response. I turned.
“You’re sure those’re are all th’ orders you wish t’ give, sir?” he asked, face blank.
I’ll wager I reddened, but I didn’t snap at him, so the madness of battle had not yet taken me. “What am I missing?”
“Look close, sir. There’s magic on th’ field.”
I gazed more closely, and now saw the haze floating around the ford, something that might have been taken for heat waves or even light dust. I’d seen it only once before, at a demonstration at the lycee. This “haze,” and I’m not describing it well, but that is the only word I know that fits, seemed centered around the corpse of the elephant closest to the enemy positions. Not far from it was a white horse, three or four spears stuck in its body.
I heard shouts from below, saw the Numantians rise and volley arrows at their attackers. In their center was an unarmed man, who was waving his hands, making an incantation. I remembered Captain Mellet had said the resident-general was a seer, and rejoiced that Tenedos evidently still lived.
Bikaner pointed to a hillock a bit removed from the fighting, to the east. I saw a man standing atop it, a man wearing long robes that marked him a wizard, and there was the same shimmer about his body I saw around the battleground.
“There’s one of their wizards,” Bikaner said. He craned. “Another there, back of their lines along th’ river. An’ there’ll be a third.…” He twisted and looked upward and to our right. “There’s th’ bastard. I was wrong about th’ battle plan, sir. It’s a good un. They’ve got three magicians, an’ th’ center of th’ triangle that’s made, givin’ focus to the magic, is where they hit ‘em. Th’ spells’ll be th’ same as they gen’rly use — confusion, fear, feelin’ helpless — but most of all bein’ wi’out skill, not able t’aim a bow right, or strike true wi’ y’r sword.”
I saw the third man, atop a crag just beyond us, above the road. I swear I could hear, from three directions, the low rumble of chanting.
“Yon diplomat, sir, may have some magickin’ powers,” Bikaner went on, “but not when there’s three t’his one.”
“Then let’s even the odds before we take them.”
“We c’n do that, sir,” Bikaner agreed, ran for his horse, and clattered back to the troop. Twelve of my best archers were dismounted and, with saber-ready escort, split into two parties. The first started up the narrow draw that led to the rock closest to us, where the hillmen’s seer continued roaring out his spells, paying no heed to anything around him. The others went for the second Kaiti magician to the east.
Within minutes one party was within bowshot of the nearest wizard, and, aiming carefully, fired. Three arrows buried themselves in the wizard’s chest, and it seemed as if the world shook. I heard a screech of pain, as if the man were next to me, and the sorcerer crumpled and fell. Soldiers scurried to the summit, to make sure he was, and stayed, dead.
As arranged, we did not wait to see if the second party of archers was successful in taking out another Kaiti magician, but went into our attack.
“At the walk … forward …”
Cheetah Troop, Seventeenth Ureyan Lancers, crested the hill into the valley of the Sulem River.
I heard shouts, cries of welcome, and then howls of surprise from across the river as the hillmen saw us, but I paid them no mind.
We reached the ford and splashed into it.
“Sound the charge!” I cried and my trumpeter raised the long bullhorn and sent the challenge echoing across the valley.
As it rang forth, I saw something I shall never forget, one of the most noble sights I’ve witnessed in battle.
One of the elephants I thought dead, who must have been a war beast before he grew too old and was shamefully made into a cargo animal, heard the blare in the dying recesses of his mind, and rolled up, staggering to his feet, trunk lifting, curling, and his own war cry bugled back at us, and he stumbled a few steps, trying to obey the long-forgotten command, and fell dead.
Our lances were couched and we thundered into the charge, and I was at the formation’s arrow-tip. Robed men were before me, one drawing his bow, and my lance struck him fair, the first man I’d ever slain, and sent him spinning away. I wheeled my horse, yanking my lance free, and came back on the line of tribesmen, and took down another hillman, then cast aside my lance and came in with the saber, my troop following like we were a single horseman.
The hillmen may have been bastards, but they were brave bastards. I saw no sign that they were breaking and running, which is usually the case when soldiers afoot are surprised by cavalry.
Instead, the Men of the Hills held their line and then counterattacked, trying to take down our horses with spears, and slashing at us as we rode past.
It was a brutal, bloody melee, men shouting, hacking at each other, gut-ripped horses going down screaming, and rage exploding, sabers too clean for this work, daggers and clawed hands savaging at their enemies.
A line of hillmen came at us, almost like regulars in their order, and I cried warning to my men.
Then the world hummed about me, and I saw something unimaginable. Not far from me a spear was embedded in the sand. I saw it pull free from the ground, with no one close to it, and then arc through the air, hard-thrown, and bury itself in a hillman’s chest. Fear coursed through me, and I saw other abandoned weapons — arrows, swords, daggers, javelins — join the battle as if wielded by invisible warriors.
I saw the man who must be Seer Tenedos standing in the open, and I heard his voice, crashing like the thunder as he sent his spell out against the tribesmen.
The h
illmen will stand against almost any enemy — but not sorcery.
Now there were screams of terror, and the Men of the Hills broke, throwing their weapons aside in panic and running, but the remorseless spell continued, and men were cut down as they tried to escape.
Then the battlefield was empty of all except corpses, wounded, and victors.
Lance Major Wace’s column galloped across the river toward us, shouting victory, and I knew they’d eliminated the attempted attack from the rear.
I prodded Lucan into a trot, toward the ford, to Tenedos and the remains of his party.
Magicians are supposed to tower over all, their fierce beards and clawed hands striking fear into all.
The man who came toward me was anything but that, I saw as I slid from my horse.
He was a little older than I, but still under thirty, and fairly short, more than a foot smaller than I am. He was black-haired, his hair worn short in the current Nician fashion, and his face was round, not unhandsome, almost boyish. He wore dark breeches and a coat, well-tailored, but they failed to conceal his slight paunch.
But it was his eyes that reached out, black, blazing like demon-fire, and took me in their grasp.
His voice came, and it was the commanding thunder of Irisu himself, but the words were completely unexpected:
“I am Seer Laish Tenedos. You must be my executioner.”
THREE
A MAGICIAN’S DREAMS
For a moment I thought the seer had gone mad. But before I could respond, a smile grew on his face, and I basked in the warmth of a spring sun. “Ah, but I see I am wrong,” Tenedos said. “I sense you mean me no harm, and I humble myself with apologies. Consider me the least of men who insulted the one who saved his life.” He bowed low.
I saluted, and introduced myself, my mission, and my assignment. I explained the problems we’d had, from a seeming error in orders to the slow pace we’d been able to make through the pass. Tenedos nodded.
